Presumption of Guilt
by Rainey13
Summary: Peter's wallet is missing, and he only sees one suspect.  Set mid-Season 1


_**A/N: With no new episodes of White Collar to keep me busy, I've been re-watching Season 1. There's a great scene in "All In" where Neal takes Peter's wallet, and it seems like it's something of a regular game for them. But it got me wondering what might happen if Peter forgets for a bit that it really is a game...**_

* * *

><p>The pasta primavera was quite good – and it tasted even better because of the way the meal had been earned.<p>

'_All right, whoever finds the pattern in these bank fraud cases wins lunch on me,' Peter had said._

'_Winner's choice of restaurant?' Neal had asked, considering it a very reasonable question._

_Peter's typical long-suffering eye roll had followed. 'Within reason.'_

With motivation like that, Neal had dug into the case files. He had years of thinking like a criminal under his belt, as well as the last few months of at least trying to think like an FBI agent. And, actually, he found the pattern he was looking for before ten o'clock. He sat on the answer for half an hour before announcing it – no sense making the agents feel even worse.

_The glare on Lauren's face would have been funny, if it didn't also have something of a murderous touch to it…_

True to his word, Peter had taken Neal to lunch. And Neal even picked a restaurant that wouldn't give Peter a total panic attack when the bill arrived.

"So how was your spaghetti?" Neal asked, watching as Peter wrapped the last strands of pasta onto his fork.

Peter chewed and took a sip of water before answering. "I liked it. Might have to bring Elizabeth here." He caught the waiter's eye, signaling for the check. "I have to admit, I was figuring you'd drag me to a much more expensive place," Peter admitted.

Neal shrugged. "It's not the price on the menu that counts, it's the quality. They do know how to do Italian here."

"So how'd you find this place?" Peter asked, perusing the bill that was brought over. Apparently it met with his approval because he started to reach for his wallet.

"It's within my radius, and close to a couple of galleries I like," Neal replied. "Plus, the first time I walked by, the place just smelled great." He paused, watching as Peter patted his pockets. "Something wrong?"

Peter finished his search and looked up, frowning. "All right, hand it over."

"What?"

"You know what!"

"No, I don't."

"Fine, I'll spell it out. You took my wallet – again! Give it back."

Neal shook his head. "Peter, I don't have your wallet."

"You're always taking my wallet."

"Well, not this time."

"Neal…"

"Peter, I admit, I have lifted your wallet from time to time."

"Lifted? Is that some kind of fancy way of saying you've _stolen_ it?"

"No, it's a way of saying that I have, in the past, _lifted_ your wallet, on a temporary basis. But I have always returned it as soon as you realized that," Neal said. "And I would return it now if I had it, but I don't."

Peter's hands were clenched as he leaned across the table. "This isn't funny."

Neal actually found himself leaning back away from the anger he saw growing in Peter's eyes. "No, it wouldn't be," he agreed. "Peter, I really didn't take it."

"Oh, so I'm supposed to believe that there's _another_ pickpocket roaming New York – who just _happened_ to steal my wallet while I'm at lunch with a master thief like you?"

Peter's voice had risen, and Neal noticed people at some of the nearby tables starting to look at them. He took a deep breath and leaned across the table, keeping his voice low. "Peter, I would never actually steal from you. I don't know what happened to your wallet, but I don't have it!"

Peter apparently noticed the people watching them as well, and he visibly cut off whatever retort he had been planning to make. "We're not done with this conversation," he warned, shoving the check in Neal's direction. "But I guess you'll have to pay this."

Neal reached for his own wallet, pulling out a credit card – the one the FBI knew about. He held it up for the waiter, who seemed a little nervous as he approached the table. Neal watched as the man moved off to run the card, and then turned back to Peter. "Are you sure you had your wallet when we left the office?"

"Why?" Peter challenged, barely managing to keep his voice low. "Did you steal it back there?"

Neal forced himself to take a deep breath before answering. "Maybe it fell out before we left."

"Oh, because I'm in such a habit of losing my wallet."

"Well, something happened to it – and it wasn't me!"

The waiter brought the bill and the credit card slip over, setting them on the table with Neal's card and a pen. Neal quickly added a tip, signed the slip, and reached for his hat. "Let's just go look in the office and see if it's there," he suggested, getting to his feet.

Peter stood up as well, grabbing Neal's elbow and propelling the younger man toward the door.

They walked out onto the sidewalk, and Neal turned in the direction of the federal building. But then he felt a hand on his arm once more, and suddenly he was being pushed into the narrow alley just on the other side of the restaurant.

"Last chance, Neal. Hand over my wallet."

"Peter, I don't…"

He never had a chance to finish before Peter turned him to face the wall. Instinctively, Neal put his hands out to stop from having his nose meet the bricks directly. And then Peter's hands were on him, searching him, checking his pockets.

"Where is it, Caffrey?"

"I don't have your wallet!"

A few people had noticed the scuffle in the alley and had stopped, apparently wondering if they should get involved. Peter pulled out his badge, holding it up. "FBI. Everything's under control here."

Neal took advantage of the momentary distraction to slip out from under Peter's hand and turn around. "Are you satisfied?" he asked, as the onlookers moved away. _Because since he had not taken Peter's wallet – this time – it couldn't have been in one of his pockets._

"You'd better hope it's in the office," Peter warned as he gave Neal a push out of the alley and toward the sidewalk.

* * *

><p>The walk back to the office had been tense and silent – quite different than the trip on the way to the restaurant. Then, they had been laughing and talking about the latest non-crime news. The usual cracks about clothing had been funny – Neal's suit was old style, Peter's suit had never been <em>in<em> style.

They rode up to the twenty-first floor, still in icy silence, and Neal was actually getting a little nervous. He wanted to profess his innocence again, but Peter didn't seem to be in any mood for that.

Once inside the White Collar bullpen, Peter pointed directly toward his office. Neal tossed his hat on his desk without breaking stride and headed for the stairs. _The wallet had to be there – it really did – because he had __not__ taken it…_

But after an exhaustive search, which involved a lot of Neal crawling around on the floor looking under everything, there was no wallet. A search of the conference room, where they had convened that morning, similarly turned up nothing but random dust.

"One final chance, Neal," Peter said softly, his words very precise. "Hand it over now and I'll let it go."

Neal shook his head, running his hand through his hair. "Peter, I don't have it!"

"This isn't funny, Neal."

"Oh, I know it's not funny! There is nothing funny about being accused of something I didn't do."

"Oh, come on! You take my wallet all the time!"

"Yeah, I have," Neal admitted. "But that's just it, Peter – it's a game. I take the wallet, but I _always_ give it back when you notice, and sometimes even before. And is there ever anything missing?" It took a long moment, but Peter finally shook his head, so Neal continued. "I wouldn't steal from you."

"Then where's my wallet?"

Neal could only shrug his shoulders as he slowly shook his head. "I don't know."

Peter turned away, looking out the window. And then he spoke, his voice low. "Go home."

"What?"

"Go home," Peter repeated, turning to face Neal again. "You have twenty minutes before I call the marshals. After that, you'd better be within a block of June's until I decide what I'm going to do."

Neal considered arguing his case – again – but finally sighed and turned toward the door. Still, he couldn't just leave. "Peter…"

"Twenty minutes."

Neal finally gave in and walked out of the office. If Peter refused to listen, continuing to argue wouldn't help any.

He walked down the stairs, heading for his desk, but then he stopped and turned back to where Jones was working. The agent looked up as Neal approached. "Jones, you went to the coffee shop with Peter this morning, right?"

"Yeah, I did. Why?"

"Did you… happen to notice if he had his wallet?"

Jones shook his head. "I lost a bet on the Pelker case, so I had to pay," he replied. "What's going on?"

Neal glanced back up at Peter's office, and then turned back to Jones. "His wallet is missing, and he thinks I took it."

"Well, you have…"

"I know I have," Neal said, a touch of desperation in his voice. "But it was just a game, and I always gave it back. I didn't do it this time."

"So what do you think…"

They were interrupted when Peter came out onto the upper walkway, glancing at his watch. "Nineteen minutes, Caffrey."

"I'm on house arrest," Neal explained, when Jones just looked confused. "Until he either finds his damn wallet – or sends me back to prison for something I didn't do."

Before the agent could answer, Neal grabbed his hat from his desk and walked out.

* * *

><p>Peter was still fuming as he drove home. It didn't help that he had been snapping at the other agents all afternoon, and that was weighing on him. They hadn't done anything wrong. But the worst part of the whole thing was the feeling of betrayal he felt. How could Neal throw away the opportunity he'd been given over a wallet?<p>

And, more to the point, what should Peter do about it?

It was hard – no, impossible – to deny that Neal had proven himself a valuable addition to the team as they worked to solve cases. His ability to drop into character on undercover assignments was unrivaled in Peter's experience. Hell, even his ability to look at old case files and see patterns that no one else had found was impressive.

On the other hand, there was no way to deny that the man had stretched – broken – more than a few rules along the way. More often than not, Peter had to admit, Neal's reasons had been good, sometimes almost noble. But for an agent who lived in a world divided between good and bad, there was little room for that gray area Neal liked to work in.

And, on an individual level, Peter had to admit that he would consider it something of a personal failure if he had to send Neal back to prison. He'd accepted the challenge of trying to keep a young man he considered brilliant, but misguided, on the right track.

Above all – damn it – he _liked_ Neal. But that couldn't be the basis for his decision.

He pulled up in front of the house, killed the ignition, and got out of the car. Hopefully Elizabeth would be home and he could talk to her about it. She always seemed to have a good perspective, unburdened as it was by years of FBI indoctrination.

The front door was unlocked – a good indication that Elizabeth was home. _Though really, maybe he should remind her again about the potential danger of an unlocked door…_

"El?" He set his briefcase down and tossed his keys on the side table.

"Be right down!" Her voice carried down to him from upstairs.

Peter took off his suit coat, draping it over a chair at the dining table before heading into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, twisted the top off, and went back out to the table, taking a long pull on the bottle as he went.

Elizabeth was just coming down the stairs. "Hey, honey, how was your day?"

Peter found he wasn't even sure how to answer that question. "It wasn't the best day," he admitted.

"I guess that started early today," she said, picking something up from the bookcase. "Did you notice you were missing something?"

Peter found himself just staring, unable to speak. _That was his wallet…_ "Where did you find that?"

"It was under the hall table, next to the closet. It must have fallen out when you were getting those boxes down for me this morning."

His hand was actually trembling as he reached for the wallet, and then he just held it, staring at it. "Oh, no."

"Wow, usually people are happy when something they've lost gets found," Elizabeth said. "What's wrong?"

Peter took a deep breath, held it a moment, and then exhaled. "I accused Neal of taking it," he admitted.

"Why would he do that?"

"El, he does it all the time!"

"But didn't you say he always gave it back right away?"

Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah. And that's what he said too. But I didn't listen."

"Peter, what did you do?"

"I sent him home, on house arrest. And… I may have hinted that he might be going back to prison."

"Oh, Peter."

"I blew it."

"I think you did."

Peter sank down onto the nearest chair. "And now I have to figure out how to fix it."

* * *

><p>Keeping busy was good. That way he had less time to dwell on the prospect – the totally <em>inequitable<em> prospect – of going back to prison.

For something he didn't do.

Not that he wanted to go back to prison, period. No, definitely not. But it would at least be a little different if he'd actually _done_ something. Like if this had been about substituting the forged Haustenberg for the Channing. Or breaking into Alisha Teagan's desk and getting the pawn ticket. _Though he still thought that one should be a gray area, since he'd only __photocopied__ the ticket, not stolen it. The whole thing with the Book of Hours should be a gray area too. After all, the church got it back – once Steve and Lucy got their miracle. _ And, of course, he had given Lao Shen the bank account number provided by Interpol, not the FBI – though in the end Peter had seemed satisfied with the hours of recorded conversations the watch had provided before the battery died.

But he and Peter had weathered all of those incidents – and a few other minor little slightly-illegal blips along the way.

Which is why it really _sucked_ to be on house arrest, and wondering where he'd be sleeping that night, over a missing wallet…

That he didn't take.

Hopefully, Peter would calm down, and accept that there could be other explanations, besides Neal being guilty. But his release was at-will – at the FBI's will – so anything could happen.

_Would it just be for the remainder of the four years? Or was there some special penalty for being accused of taking an FBI agent's wallet, even if there wasn't any proof?_

He was trying to stay positive – but also be prepared. He'd taken a long shower, enjoying the solitude, the excellent water pressure, and the more than sufficient amount of hot water available. He used the electric razor, trimming his beard to what he considered just the right level of sophisticated scruff. Those plastic disposables would never recreate that look. The special-order toothpaste would have to stay – it would just get squeezed out of the tube to test it. _Too bad there wasn't a way to re-load the tube._ But the toothbrush was the best he'd found, and that would go with him.

_If he went…_

He'd pulled on a pair of jeans – definitely not time to wear one of Byron's suits, just in case. And a white t-shirt…

_The same one he'd worn when Peter had pulled him out of prison._

He was just walking out into the main room when there was a knock on the door. His step faltered just for a moment before he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door. "Peter!" He stepped back, away from the opening. "Going to drive me back yourself? I was expecting the marshals."

"Neal…"

"Of course, I suppose there's a certain symmetry, since you picked me up in the first place." Neal went to the table, holding up the toothbrush that was still in his hand. "Hard to get a good one of these at the prison commissary," he said, dropping it into the bag sitting there.

"Neal, I'm…"

"You can check the bag. I'm pretty sure it's all right," Neal continued, barely taking a breath. "I need to get my shoes."

"Neal!" Finally getting the younger man's attention, Peter sighed, reaching into his pocket. "I'm not here to take you to prison. I'm here to eat crow," he said, pulling out his wallet. "However you'd like to serve it up."

Neal just stood where he was, shoes dangling forgotten from his fingertips. "Where?" he finally asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

Peter stepped all the way into the apartment, closing the door. "El asked me to get some things out of storage this morning," he said, slipping the wallet back into his pocket. "Apparently, the wallet fell out while I was wrestling with a couple of big boxes. She found it under the hall table when she got home tonight."

Neal let the shoes drop to the floor and sank down onto one of the chairs at the table. "Wow."

"Neal, I'm sorry."

"I just always thought you understood it was a game," Neal said softly.

"I did. I do." Peter shook his head slowly. "I don't have a good explanation."

Neal considered that for a long moment before replying. "I think maybe we should just go anyway," he finally said, very slowly.

Peter looked confused. "Go? What, back to prison?"

"Yeah."

"You _want_ to be in prison instead of here?"

Neal shook his head, staring down at the floor. "No, I don't _want_ that. But if you honestly believe I'd steal from you, then I don't see how this can work out. And the longer I work for you, the harder it's going to be for me if I go back."

Peter sighed and sat down on a chair across the table. "I already screwed up today by rushing to a decision," he said slowly. "I don't want you to make the same mistake."

"Well, I've had some time to think about it. Nothing but time, all afternoon."

"Yeah." Peter stared down at his hands for a moment before continuing. "How about this? As far as the marshals know, you're working tomorrow. That means no monitoring, seven to seven. And I'll call them in the morning, say we're working this weekend too. That gives you three days to see some of the museums and galleries you've been wanting to get to, but couldn't. And three days to think about what you want. We'll talk on Monday."

"Three days, to go where I want to go?"

"You need to be back within two miles of here by seven o'clock," Peter cautioned. "And I may check your location from time to time, which had better still be in the metro area. But otherwise, yes."

"What about the office? How many people think I stole your wallet?"

"I will make a public _mea culpa_ tomorrow. Now, why don't you unpack," he suggested, nudging the bag. "You're not going anywhere tonight, and I hope, by Monday, we can work something out."

* * *

><p>Peter watched the bullpen area filling up as the agents arrived for the workday. And when it looked like most of them were in, he got up from his desk and went out onto the walkway. This was going to be uncomfortable, but it had to be done.<p>

"Hey, folks, can I have your attention." He waited a moment as other conversations stopped and eyes turned up to look at him. "There's something I need to tell all of you," he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet and hold it up. "As most of you undoubtedly heard yesterday, one way or the other, my wallet was missing, and I blamed Neal Caffrey. Well, it turns out, the wallet fell out at my house, and my wife found it when she got home last night. Neal had nothing to do with it." He let the whispered buzz from the floor linger for a moment before continuing. "Now, I'm sure some of you may have mentioned the wallet to other people, who may have mentioned it to others, and so on. What I'm asking you to do is pass the real story on the same way. Let the grapevine carry the truth instead of rumor."

"So is Neal coming in?" Jones asked.

"I gave him the day off," Peter replied, trying his best to sound confident as he continued. "He'll be back on Monday. And despite his normal air of bravado, he does care what all of you think about him. This," he added, waving the wallet, "was all on me."

Leaving the agents to buzz over this news, and hopefully work the grapevine to correct his mistake from the day before, Peter walked back into his office. He sank down into the chair behind his desk and swiveled to stare out the window.

He missed seeing Cruz lean in to whisper something to Jones…

* * *

><p>The ride up to the twenty-first floor seemed to take forever. Or, maybe it was zooming by too fast – he wasn't quite sure.<p>

When the elevator doors opened, Neal took a deep breath and stepped out. This was almost like starting over again. The first few weeks of his time in the FBI office had been filled with attempts to prove himself, to make friends – or at least convince the agents he was no longer the enemy. Some had been won over early on, and he soon had a small group of people to share a cup of coffee with, or get the latest gossip from. Others had taken longer to warm up, and, to be honest, he figured there were a few who would always look at him with open distrust.

But after being sent home in disgrace on Thursday, he had no idea what kind of welcome he'd find now.

Still, he _was_ Neal Caffrey, and certainly no one was going to actually _see_ his internal doubt. He'd walk in this morning like every other morning, and see what happened.

And if the worst case scenario developed, at least he'd had a wonderful long weekend, filled with so many galleries and museums he'd been unable to visit before.

He pushed the door open, turned toward his desk – and stopped short.

His desk was literally covered in wallets. There were leather wallets, canvas wallets, even metal cases. A pink shiny plastic wallet sparkled in the morning sun. A child's wallet with Superman's "S" symbol was leaning against the monitor. As he looked closer, other superheroes and cartoon characters could be found.

A shadow loomed over the desk, getting his attention, and Neal looked up to find Cruz and Jones standing next to him, smiling.

"We figured, if Peter ever loses his wallet again, you could have some spares on hand to offer him," Jones explained.

"We asked everyone to pick out a special wallet when they went on break on Friday," Lauren added. "The Hello Kitty one was mine."

"Yeah, I went for Superman," Jones said. "That one with the rhinestones was from Hughes."

Neal looked past Jones and Cruz, to where the other agents were watching, most of them looking a little anxious as they waited for his reaction. And really, what could he do but smile? _If even Hughes had participated…_

In fact, laughing was even better. "This is great."

"The one with the chain is from me," Peter said, making his way toward them. "Maybe that's what I should use."

"Or this one," Neal suggested, picking up the shiny pink wallet, and looking at it somewhat dubiously. "I think this one might glow in the dark. That would make it easy to see."

A few agents dared laugh, and even Peter seemed to be struggling to hold back a smile as he nodded. "Or, I could just make sure to look under the table first if it happens again."

"That too," Neal agreed.

"So, are you ready to get to work?" Peter's tone seemed light, and yet there was an undercurrent of uncertainty.

Neal took one more look around the bullpen and then turned back to Peter. "What's on the docket today?"

"I've got a whole new set of bank fraud cases in the conference room, just waiting for someone to find the pattern."

"You're buying lunch for the winner?"

"Absolutely. Winner's choice." Peter reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. "I even have my wallet this time."

Neal tossed his hat on top of some of the wallets on his desk, picked up a pen and his rubber band ball, and grinned. "Well, what are we waiting for? I'm hungry already. And there's this great new Thai restaurant I've been wanting to try…"

And as he climbed the stairs he watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Peter threw up his hands in mock surrender, smiling all the way. Jones and Cruz exchanged a victory fist bump. Other agents shared a smile and a few words before returning to their own duties.

It was good that Peter had arranged for the three days for both of them to think about things, because this was definitely where he wanted to be.

_And he'd wait a little while before lifting Peter's wallet again…_


End file.
